Silence
by Willie The Plaid Jacket
Summary: John doesn't like clubs, he doesn't like dancing, and he doesn't like men. But on the dancefloor after a few drinks with Sherlock's hands on him, he may need to reconsider. M/M Slash.


John didn't know what specific kind of music it was. House. Techno. Electronica. Something along those lines, he was sure. It was dance music, that was all he knew.

The fast, rhythmic drum beat was like an adrenaline fuelled heartbeat, pulsing through everyone in the room, keeping them in sync. A haunting, slightly distorted woman's voice floated above it, feeding passion into the melody of the piece. If it wasn't being drowned out slightly by the general din within the club, John was sure the tune would be almost pleasant in a familiarly repetitive way. But at that moment, it was the rumbling bass that was making John lose himself. It was making the ground vibrate; a feeling that was travelling up his body to the very ends of his hair. To his contentedly inebriated mind, it felt like electricity in his veins.

With every ebb and flow of the bass, John moved his body; rolling his shoulders, tilting his head, stretching his arms above himself, and shifting his hips. Grinding his hips. Dragging them against the body in front of his own. The body that moved with the kind of grace John could only hope he was half-way achieving. The body that glistened with sweat. That moved in time with his own.

The one whose hands were on John's waist.

The one he'd seen every day for months, but never like this.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, his head hung forwards nearly touching John's. He looked, for lack of a better word, entranced.

The detective's shirt clung damply to his chest, as did his hair to his forehead and nape. His cheeks were flushed a most enchanting shade of pink. His mouth was slightly slack. He looked, John thought, so utterly human in that moment.

John brought his right hand down from where it had been gliding through the air above them to rest on Sherlock's neck, in an effort to transmit this thought through contact and convince Sherlock that his humanity was most certainly a good thing. A beautiful thing.

Sherlock dragged his eyelids half open and looked into John. There could have been no one else in the building for all either of them knew or cared.

John brought his head forwards to break the slight gap that had been there and created one more point of contact between them, maintaining eye contact throughout.

His left hand soon followed suit and rested on Sherlock's hip.

Still they moved in perfect unison. The friction of their clothed bodies gliding against one another added to the heat that surrounded them and slowly added to the heat inside of them that spread from their cores, causing synapses to fire, nerves to tingle, chemicals to burn in their blood.

The song shifted. The woman's voice rang out in a passionate cry of lyrics John couldn't make out. The climax was building.

They felt it, both of them.

Sherlock's hands shifted to John's rear and faintly squeezed.

A moan that neither of them could possibly hear left John's lips.

For a moment, just as the drum beat that had disappeared began to build up once again, John tried to remember how they got to this point.

A case.

A club.

A suspect.

An act that they had to put on.

Snippets of the night came and went through John's mind.

Standing at the bar.

Telling Sherlock, 'I'm not dancing.'

The suspect came.

Sherlock wrapping his lips around a beer bottle as if he were kissing it.

The suspect went.

'He's not our man.'

Drinks.

Easiness.

Dancing.

Sherlock's hands, and hips, and John's inhibitions left at the bar with his empty glasses.

The wave of music was about to crest and the throng of people around them lifted their hands in anticipation. Sherlock's hands remained on John's behind.

Warmth and softness against his lips was the next thing John was aware of. Moving forward to kiss Sherlock didn't happen as far as he was aware. It was instantaneous.

Just as they had been doing all along, they moved in tandem. As Sherlock opened his mouth, John mirrored. It was slow and sensual, the way their lips slid against one another's with ease. Tongues flicked and tasted, meeting and exploring.

Later on, John wouldn't remember if the feeling of Sherlock's erection through their clothes led to the same reaction in himself or if it was the other way around, but either way, their movements now had a new found urgency.

The kiss became deeper and soon they had to break away to simply pant into one another's mouths instead.

John began to drag his hands down to copy the positioning of Sherlock's own, but barely had his fingertips reached their destination before Sherlock grabbed one hand and was leading them away from the dance floor.

Sometime during their heated kissing, the song had ended and bled into the next. The new rhythm was faster and more brutal. John wasn't sure if that was why he was being led down a corridor at the back of club or if Sherlock had another motive.

When his companion opened a fire exit door at the end of the hall and pressed John against the wall of the alley that ran around the back of the building, John suspected it had been the latter.

Their kiss resumed almost as if uninterrupted, only now the music was but a faint mumble and the air much cooler and less oppressive. And Sherlock's hands, rather than massaging the muscles of John's buttocks, were moving to undo his trousers.

Once again, following suit, John reciprocated and soon they were grinding their hips against one another once more, but this time, no fabric remained in the way to dull the sensation.

Both men moaned at the first contact of skin on skin and heard it with perfect clarity this time without the music loud enough to drown it out.

Sherlock wrapped one large hand around the both of them as they began to thrust more eagerly.

John unabashedly threw his head back, making contact with the brick, and groaned with pleasure. Sherlock instead chose to litter John's jaw and neck with brief, sucking kisses.

Unsure of what to do with his own hands, John slid them down the back of Sherlock's now loosened trousers, taking two handfuls of firm Holmesian flesh, and pulled the taller man as closely towards him as possible.

It was enough to make Sherlock's grip tighten and send sparks flitting through both men.

'Joh...', Sherlock breathed, the 'n' having been lost in a deep growl.

They were close now, the both of them. Any technique they might have been trying for evaporated as they were reduced to stuttering jerky movements.

John could feel the building warm pressure centred in his abdomen about to ignite and catch fire, and made one last move to capture Sherlock's lips with his own.

It wasn't anywhere as controlled a kiss as their first, but it was no less sensual and pushed John over the edge with blinding force.

Sherlock felt John spasm in his hand, felt the warm wetness trickle down to his wrist and came against John with a series of moans that fell straight into John's mouth.

Their breathing haggard, they remained standing with their foreheads touching for some time, neither desiring to move. The moment they did, the comforting blissful bubble of contentment that surrounded them would shatter and they would have to look into one another's eyes, suddenly sober and very aware.

So they remained for a while in that alleyway, spent and wilfully ignorant, deciding to prolong the inevitable and with nothing but their breathing and the faint murmur of distant music to break the silence.


End file.
